


A Fresh Scar

by Bearfootscar



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearfootscar/pseuds/Bearfootscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had a convenient, purely sexual arrangement, but after a night of intense passion, Trina Tabris discovers a freshly knit scar across Zevran's ribs.  Every scar tells a story, but this story might be closer to home than she anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fresh Scar

They’ve been visiting each others’ tents for over a week now, but the desperate intensity of their sex had not yet run its course.  It is all open mouths, sweat-slicked skin, and ravenous groping to finally press against the flesh they’d both lusted after these last few weeks. Once their fires quelled to embers, they would awkwardly retreat to their own sleeping places, dodging the quizzical looks of their companions.  But tonight, their bodies crumple into one another, exhausted from both battle and pleasure, and even after their gasps quiet, neither make a move to rise.  Instead, her hands meander along all the lines and curves of his body, finding many weathered scars, white trails her fingers absentmindedly follow.  His muscles melt into the blanket as she tours his flesh, but even in the dim of fire-light lit canvas, she can see the raised pink of a newly knit scar .  

Fresh marks were familiar on her own body and each held a tale of a near miss, barely evaded death, and regret.  Her most recent scar told of all three; of how she failed when Shianni and Nelaros needed her most.  A deep laceration now molded into a jagged mountain range along her ribs.  From the hate in the guard’s eyes, it had been meant to be a killing blow, but her need for vengeance armored her.  It is the only explanation for how an elf could rip her way through a noble’s estate with only a bloodied wedding dress and her bare hands.

These musings let her fingers stray to Zevran’s most recent scar.  She sees his flesh prickle at her approach as he pulls himself up onto one elbow where she can feel his curiosity upon her.  Undeterred, she lets her fingers linger over the smooth line across his ribs.  His skin quivers under the tip of her finger as his hand shoots to cover her own.

“Now now, dear Warden, some things are better left untouched,” he coos to her with a smirk.  He pulls her hand up to his chest and plants a distracting kiss on the curious fingertip.  

He has broken their tacit no-talking-in-the-tent rule that has kept their exploits pure lusty pleasure.  This arrangement of theirs has been almost business like, and while she appreciates the simplicity of their relationship, the tenderness of his gesture gives her pause.  Breaking another rule, she meets his gaze.  For a long moment, all that exists is the heat of his chest against her palm, the chirping of night bugs, and the lingering taste of him upon her tongue.  

Her reverie is broken by a sudden and wicked thought as pieces start to fall into place in her mind, and her eyes jump back to the scar across his ribs.  His grip on her hand tightens as he tries to rise, but before he can escape, she locks him in place and squints at his mark while her mind searches for the last details she needs.  

She has replayed their first conversation so many times in her mind that she can hear the rope creaking as he worked to free his bound wrists.  How many nights has she lost gazing into the fire while questioning her decision that day?  To let her attempted assassin live was foolhardy to say the least, and her companions wasted no time in expressing their doubts, yet something that day moved her to mercy.  But now her mind races through the flurry of the battle before that moment.  She’d gone toe-to-toe with him after he skillfully made his way across the field to dispatch her with his own hand.  Their duel was a blur of daggers and cheap evasive maneuvers, but it was sufficient to distract him long enough for Leliana to land a pinning shot and then…

Her hand pulls free of his grip and as though in a mock replaying of the scene from weeks ago, she mimes the remembered blow intended to kill her would-be assassin.  As she draws her imaginary blade across his ribs, it all comes back to her.  How he managed to survive such a blow is as miraculous as her escape from Vaughan’s estate.  

The realization finally made, she notices Zevran is frozen in half-recoiled worry.  This is clearly a secret he meant to keep, and she recognizes the posture of one poised for a quick escape if needed.  

Before her mind can leap to strategize a way to safely extract herself from this vulnerability, she finds her arms wrapping around his chest and her cheek resting next to his scar.  She expects the embrace to feel clunky or cumbersome, but their bodies meld as though their only purpose has ever been to press together in this way--two halves forming a whole.  Her lips graze the wound with a gentleness she never held before

“I’m sorry, Zevran,” she hears her voice before she’s formed the words.

He exhales slowly and his arms come down to press her further against him.  “I am not.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write this almost a year ago, but well, at least it's here now! 
> 
> Eternal thinks to the dashing Lilou88/LilouApproves for her beta magic and encouraging flailing about.


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